


Simple Commands

by RussianWitch



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Abuse of Ties, Alternate Universe, Anal Sex, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Autoerotic Asphyxiation, Dirty Talk, Dominance, If You Squint - Freeform, Light Bondage, M/M, Mutation, Oral Sex, Referenced - Freeform, Spanking, whatever else I forgot to tag
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-09
Updated: 2017-10-17
Packaged: 2018-05-25 18:14:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6205531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RussianWitch/pseuds/RussianWitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's eyes are ridiculously blue, he's watching Harold over Bear's head a small smile on his face expression open and happy. Harold thinks how many mannerisms John and Bear share, how sometimes they seem to share communication that goes far further than the comprehension of simple commands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> not beta'd

Juni 2012

Even in the bowels of the library surrounded by marble, it's hot.

Reese, ignoring all propriety, sprawls on the ratty couch that had materialized in Harold's workspace about the same time as the dog bed for Bear covered only by well-worn jeans and said dog. Having been forced to tail a number through traffic for most of the morning, John had come back overheated and dehydrated, much to Harold's annoyance. He'd been ready to lecture Reese on the dangers of not taking care of himself when the man had whipped his shirt off leaving Harold struggling not to swallow his tongue. The boots came off next, barefoot Reese had stalked over to one of the marble pillars throwing his arms around it and pressing himself against the cool stone with a pornographic moan.

A patch in the small of Reese's back glistened in the dim of the library. Harold wished he could get up, go over and bend down to lick the moisture off tan, warm skin, taste the salt and Reese, feel the muscle in Reese's back move under his tongue. He swallowed and wiped his mouth carefully just in case. Against the pillar, Reese turned, getting on his toes and arching his back against the stone. The jeans sat low on Reese's hips, the button fly: an obscene temptation.

Harold had been grateful when Bear finally decides to appear from whatever shadowy corner he's found for himself to greet his favorite playmate. Setting out water for Reese and refilling Bear's bowl as the two soldiers wrestled on the floor, Harold had made himself get back to work. When he looked up again, Reese and Bear were piled onto the couch snoring away curled around each other.

Something nags at him as he admires the sight: Reese snorts in his sleep and his leg twitches like he's trying to walk, Bear's ears twitch, the dog shifts and shoves his muzzle against Reese's throat. Puppies keeping each other safe in sleep—, a lot of people made jokes about Harold having acquired a guard dog, even before Reese decided to expand his weapons collection with Bear, and he had worked with K-9 units before.

John's eyes are ridiculously blue, he's watching Harold over Bear's head a small smile on his face expression open and happy. Harold thinks how many mannerisms John and Bear share, how sometimes they seem to share communication that goes far further than the comprehension of simple commands. "They—enchanted you!" He blurts, cursing himself when John's defenses slam down at once, eyes turning opaque gray and body going tense.

"Are you okay, Finch?" Reese asks far too casually. If it wasn't for Bear, Harold would probably think he's imagining things if it hadn't been for Bear he wouldn't have noticed, but the dog is awake as well not sitting up but ready to go at any moment tense and anxious without a clear reason. "You were enchanted to work with the K-9 units, before—" And lost his canine partner, or he wouldn't have been accepted into the Deltas or snapped up by the agency after. "I'm sorry Mr. Reese. If you don't want to talk about it—" He sighs, "The Machine hasn't brought it up, so I have to assume you have it under control, but I would have preferred to know." If he had, Harold might have approached Reese differently.

"I don't bite, Finch," Reese tells him mildly, his arm going around Bear's neck unconsciously. "Unless you ask nicely." He adds with a somewhat cruel smirk: Reese likes to tease him, little digs that can be taken several different ways, flirtation among them but Harold has always considered that a very unlikely option. Despite the certainty he's being made fun of, Harold still can't help imagining himself asking.

Reese wouldn't react the request at first, maybe ignore it all together and later corner Harold somewhere in the stacks, maybe the wildlife section, divorce him of his tie and mark Harold's neck and shoulders with his lips and teeth. Reese would be hard and warm against him, an unstoppable force at Harold's back.

Now that he knows what Reese is, Harold really should stop thinking about scenarios like these. There is a good chance that Reese can smell every time his boss has a dirty thought about him, and that's not something he should be subjected to. There are several techniques Harold can try to keep himself under control. The fact that he has to resort to them is highly annoying considering that before Reese, he'd been more or less committed to closing the door on this particular part of his life.

"Don't overthink it." Reese's breath against the tip of his ear makes Harold jump and wonder how the man has managed to untangle himself from the dog and cross the room without him noticing, Harold has no idea. He looks up at the expense of the broad chest leaning back until he can finally meet amused blue eyes. Grin growing to show a hint of what just might be very sharp incisors, Reese says, "Woef," and Harold's finger is gently tapping the soldier's nose as he hears himself say, "Af!"

Behind them, Bear makes a huff that sounds suspiciously put-upon to Harold, and Reese bursts out in laughter. The sound is rich and deep, if a bit rusty to Harold's ears, Reese keeps on laughing until he has to stumble back wiping tears from his eyes, turning to Bear to hug him before returning to crouch in front of Harold. "Mr. Reese, I don't think this course of action is—"

"Appropriate? You can't actually make me do anything I don't want, you do realize that Harold?" While he talks, Reese twists Harold's tie around a hand pushing closer and closer until he's practically in Harold's lap. "Still as your employer I should not be—"

"I like the way you smell when you are thinking about me." Reese interrupts, far too close and naked for Harold's piece of mind. "I think about you too—, Harold." He doesn't know when his hands ended up on Reese's hips, squeezing his flesh through the denim hard enough to bruise. "Always remember the way you smell when I'm jerking off—" Keeping hold of Harold's tie, John leans back allowing Harold to enjoy the play of muscle, "I've been imagining you watching," John growls, feral and seductive wrecking havoc on Harold's resolve, swaying back to nuzzle at Harold's throat right above his collar. "Please, Harold, let me show you how good I can be." He licks across Harold's lips dipping the tip of his tongue into Harold's mouth in a tease the hacker can't resist. John growls into his mouth, the sound vibrating down his nerves as John steals the breath from his lungs. Harold's hands really do have a mind of their own, relocating to John's ass without his say so.

They can't have sex in the chair. Harold decides, wrenching himself away from the sensations John elicits in him. The way John has been molesting his tie, Harold needs to change clothing anyway—and John has earned the right to a few more of Harold's secrets ten times over already. Prodding John off his lap takes some effort, thankfully Harold has managed to become somewhat immune, or that's what he likes to tell himself anyway. "Volg." He orders thickly, rising from his chair heading for the main stairs. When he looks back turning onto the stairs, John and Bear are on his heels looking suspiciously—happy.

Up in the attic, Harold unlocks the apartment that used to be part of the night watchman's salary. It isn't much, but there is a sitting room, and a kitchen, a bedroom with room for a closet a decent bed and bathroom. He's been using it ever since— when going to a safe house was inconvenient. "Shouldn't either you or Bear have noticed I have been sleeping here?" Harold wonders as the two take their time exploring the set of rooms. "You didn't want us to know." John shrugs, returning after he's satisfied himself they are safe. "What else have you ignored to—indulge me?"

"Can we save this conversation for later?" John sighs, circling Harold to tug his suit jacket off his shoulders and draping it over the back of a chair. He snakes his arms around Harold's waist to unbutton his vest stripping it off as well. "I'll even make a list if you want." Being stripped so skillfully, only adds to Harold's arousal: the care John shows his clothing, promises much for the care he will take with Harold's body. "Just this once." Harold capitulates, turning to wrap his arms around John's waist in return. He caresses the hard muscle under his hands as John works on the buttons of his shirt, leans in to brush his lips across a powerful shoulder tasting the hint of salt. The attic is hot like a sauna, baked air makes every move feel like they are moving through molasses.

Stripping off is a relief in the heat, not having to hide his scars is pleasant as well. John makes a sound that is part growl, part moan nuzzling along Harold's spine rubbing his scent along Harold's back. As much as he enjoys the touch, Harold doesn't enjoy being passive, thinking back to the fantasy that's started all this, he hooks his fingers into John's jeans pulling him along towards the bed. John goes willingly, happily allowing himself to be pushed down onto the light blue sheets. "Hands and knees please, Mr. Reese." He orders and John drops hollowing his back to present Harold with a very nice view of his ass, spreading his legs just far enough to tempt. "Good boy." Escapes him before Harold can censor himself, and for an instant, he's terrified that John will take offense, but the shiver that rakes John's whole body tells him John doesn't quite mind. "Stay put."

On his knees, on the bed, John is exactly the right height for Harold to indulge in tasting his skin. Starting right between John's shoulder blades, Harold licks down John's spine to suck and lick at the small of the soldier's back nipping and kissing until the skin is coated with Harold's spit, red and bruised looking and John is shaking under his hands. "Harold!" John growls in warning, and Harold remembers that this isn't just about him. Straightening up, he notes the bulge stretching the crotch of John's jeans: the buttons of his fly straining against the pressure on them. "Oh dear!"

He lowers himself next to the desperate man, laying back while guiding John forward until he's straddling Harold's chest where Harold can easily reach most of his body. John throws his head back when Harold kneads his thighs, "Harold, if you don't do something, I won't be responsible for my actions in—" The shocked expression on John's face when Harold rips the button fly open letting John's dick spring free slapping wetly against his abdomen. "You will do, precisely nothing—, for the moment," Harold tells him, distracted by the bright red flesh swaying in front of him slick, thick and mouthwatering. He wants everything, or maybe too much; even deciding if he wants John in his mouth or ass is difficult.

"Tell me, Mr. Reese: would you prefer to penetrate or be penetrated?" There is a certain perverse pleasure in playing to John's expectations of him. John drops to brace his elbows a little too hard on Harold's shoulders.

"You're killing me," he complains, nipping reproachfully at Harold's ear."Then you should answer the question, shouldn't you?" Harold scrapes his teeth along John's throat kneading his ass, trying to predict what John will pick.

"Then you should answer the question, shouldn't you?" Harold scrapes his teeth along John's throat kneading his ass, trying to predict what John will pick.

"I want to fuck you!" John groans, "will you let me fuck you, Harold?"

"Can you go slow?" Harold hates asking, but if his neck gets jolted too much it won't be fun for either of them. John hisses, rubbing his dick against Harold's abdomen matting the fur with sweat and pre-come.

"Sadist," John growls making Harold laugh and push him off secure in the knowledge that John understands. Rolling over he reaches into the bedside table for the lube. There are no condoms if John objects—John pins him to the mattress right at the edge where Harold can brace his bad leg against the floor. He barely gets the chance to toss his glasses onto the bedside table before John growls, "What did I tell you about overthinking?" Against the small of his back, right before sinking his teeth into the flesh of Harold's ass.

"Fuck! John!" He can't remember the last time he'd wanted someone this much, this violently. If his body was up to it, he'd love to feel all of John's strength: have John leave him bruised and barely walking in the morning. Have John breed him like a bitch, with ruthless abandon until both of them are a complete mess. As things stand, Harold has to settle for John's control; will settle for a tortuously slow fuck that will drive both of them insane before the end.

"Yes," John promises and Harold realizes that he's said all of that out loud, too distracted by John's oral fixation to notice he was talking to himself. "Deep and slow, so deep you won't get me out of your body anytime soon." Like Harold ever could, even without them having sex. John is inside of him already, wedged so deep only death is going to destroy the connection. Harold's personal anomaly, one he isn't ready to resolve anytime soon. "Now, tell me what to do." John orders, Harold feels him smiling against his skin imagining the sly glint in the soldier's eyes.

"Your fingers, Mr. Reese!" He snaps in his most authoritarian voice and is rewarded by the lube being plucked out of his hands and the sensation of a slick finger pressing agonizingly slow against his asshole. "What else?" John demands, working him open inch by inch, "What else do you want?" His dick drags along Harold's calf like John can't help rubbing against Harold.

"I want to watch you ride me. Maybe put one of those ties you refuse to wear to good use to bind your hands. Feel you coming around me." John's fingers stutter inside of him, push and twist and Harold hides a grin against the pillow.

"Damn it, Finch!" John's teeth sink into his shoulder next to the scars while his dick slots between his ass cheeks, threatening or teasing: he isn't sure which.

"Would you prefer me—," He interrupts himself moaning with disappointment when John's dick catches on the rim of his ass but doesn't go in. "Prefer me to tell about my fantasy of sucking your dick while you clean your guns, not allowing you release until you've finished every last one." The soldier shudders against him with laughter, but Harold can also feel his dick jump and leak from the image he describes.

"That would be a very bad deterrent." John's dick against his ass is replaced with three fingers screwing inside of him searching for the one spot that makes Harold stutter and loses his train of thought.

"Yes, I did realize that after getting better acquainted with your more masochistic tendencies."

"I can't help it if some rich billionaire wants me to save people." Another twist of John's fingers sends a fresh jolt of sensation through Harold before they withdraw leaving him moaning with regret. John shifts behind him shuffling closer and pulling away at the same time—then he is pressed open inch by torturous inch sinking into him at a glacial pace. "And I would have thought you'd appreciate my masochistic tendencies as you call them."

Harold has never hated the fact that he can't turn his head more than he does at this moment. He'd love to see the expression on John's face, the words—maybe he's imagining things, his body short-circuiting from pleasure. "I don't want to hurt you, John." He manages to blurt, but John doesn't seem to be listening.

By the time John is finally inside of him completely, Harold thinks eons must have passed. The soldier's body is draped across his back, John letting him feel just enough of his weight to keep Harold from trying to struggle. Their bodies dragging against each other as John pulls out again not speeding up an iota, doing exactly what Harold ordered while panting against the back of his neck.

"You've been fantasizing about tying me up, Harold. Bet there was more to it than that." There is a challenge in John's voice Harold can't quite resist.

"I wonder what it is you want to hear?" He asks fighting to keep his words steady as pleasure robs him of more and more higher brain functions. "That next time you do something reckless, I will patch you up, then bend you over one of the reading tables to spank your ass to remind you, you aren't expendable?" John snorts and does something with hips that leaves Harold unable to go on speaking for long moments. "Of course I would feel obliged to kiss it better after—, and perhaps grant a small reward if—"

"Wouldn't exactly call it small." John's hand closes around Harold's dick giving it a few teasing strokes before disappearing again. It takes an inhuman amount of self-control and biting the pillow to keep his indignation in, but Harold manages, squeezing his internal muscles in revenge until he feels John shake and something tear.

"You can take those out in trade." He pants, speeding up just a little: short, sharp thrusts, batter Harold's insides until he's forced to grab onto the headboard to keep from doing something inadvisable.

John's hands tighten on his hips as sweat makes it harder to hold on. Closing his eyes Harold lets himself float, secure in John's grasp as pleasure builds in his body, tendrils of it crawling up his spine and out towards the tips of his fingers and toes. "I want to wake up with you." He finds himself blurting, "I want to open my eyes and see you next to me." He confesses, and John goes still behind him.

Harold knows John probably doesn't want to hear anything this ridiculous, but Harold's brain to mouth filter has inexplicably disappeared. He doesn't even realize that John is coming until John moans a tortured, "Harold," And collapses half on top of him panting harshly.

Before Harold can apologize, or ask what it was that managed to break John's control, the soldier rallies flipping him onto his back. John's mouth on his is sloppy and vicious there one moment and wrapping around Harold's dick the next. The world disappears, whites out as John sucks, all that Harold registers is the hot wet mouth around him and the feeling of John's short hair sliding through his grasping fingers. 

He tunes into the world again to the sound of growling.

Sitting up is problematic with an overprotective, soldier lying on top of him. Next to the bed Bear dances and growls, clearly anxious about something. "Bear, nee!" Part of the growling disappears, subsiding into a sulky look. "You too, John." He adds as an afterthought and gets another injured look. "Is this going to be a regular occurrence?" He wonders before catching himself, chances are John got what he wanted now and this is a one-off.

John turns to him, cocking his head looking as relaxed as he always does, but Harold can feel him tense where John is still draped over him. "I don't know, Harold? Is it?"

Silence stretches between them as Harold tries to calculate what John will want to hear. He reaches up, wants to run his fingers through John's hair again, but the soldier inches away. If Harold wasn't watching closely he wouldn't have noticed but now that he has no choice but to drop his hand. "I—would hate to think I overstepped—" His mouth grows dry, the pleasant lassitude that had taken over his body rapidly turning into a nest of snakes pulsating in his gut.

Had John given him this out of obligation, Harold wonders, watching some spark in John's eyes dim. "I did say I want to wake up with you." He sighs, having promised John not to lie to him, Harold can hardly take back the words. "I was merely referring to the—ah, growling." He lies back down, looks up at the ceiling, letting prime numbers running through his mind to stop himself from reaching for John again or embarrassing himself further.

John shifts, and Harold braces expecting him to get up, take Bear and leave. He doesn't expect John to duck down, and butt at his hand like Bear when he wants attention. "They don't teach military dogs about sex," John explains against Harold's ribs, tension flowing out of his body as he throws an arm possessively around Harold's thighs.

"Bear thought you hurt me?" He realizes.

"He knows better now." John huffs and wiggles closer until his chin is resting on Harold's chest, stubble catching on Harold's fur.

"You—explained things to him?" Harold asks, curiosity about John's condition returning. His hand straying to John's ear, scratching at the delicate skin just behind it until John shivers against him.

"Dogs, don't really work that way, but yeah." Usually, John only sounds this happy when he manages to 'acquire' a new gun. "He's embarrassed now, it's like realizing your parents have sex." He smiles beautifully when Harold can't control a laugh.

"And how do you work, Mr. Reese?" Harold wonders, petting his lover's hair and digging his fingers into the knots in John's back. The soldier ignores his question, the sounds coming out of his mouth closer to feline than the canines he has been re-engineered to work with.

In the sitting room, Bear drinks noisily from his bowl, the springs in the old couch squeak, but Harold decides to let the infraction of furniture etiquette go. John's breathing evens out as he drops off. Harold reaches for his glasses, then sinks back against the pillows to watch dust motes dance in the last rays of the sun coming through the ceiling window.


	2. Chapter 2

It's barely cold enough for a coat, but Harold feels—safer somehow with that one extra layer between him and the world. One layer of many shouldn't make that much of a difference, and yet—on the other side of the alley John is using his particular style of persuasion on a contractor who has forgotten the benefits of obeying the law and building up to code. Several muffled grunts and a cut off scream later, John comes swaggering back. Shadows and moonlight dance across his face revealing his feral, self satisfied grin. "I wish you took a little less enjoyment out of your job sometimes." Harold can't resist sighing.

Once John is closer, Harold can see evidence of their target having gotten a few licks in: there is blood on John's lip, and guessing from the way he moves a bruise, or two under the wrinkled clothing. "Job satisfaction is very important for keeping up moral." John lectures, crowding Harold against a dirty wall. "Don't you want me to—?" Before he knows it, Harold has a hand on the back of the infuriating man's neck, pulling him down: tasting John and blood, the soldier's mouth distorted by the contusion into a strange new configuration. Kissing must hurt, but John doesn't seem to mind, drawing it out until Harold is completely out of breath. "You did good, John." Harold tells him, not giving in to the temptation to banter. "I just wish you'd be more careful."

John shudders against him, something between a growl and a groan escapes his throat, smothered in Harold's shoulder. "Let's go home, I'm sure Bear is getting anxious." 'And I want to take care of your wounds', Harold doesn't add because John doesn't want to hear it. They walk back to the car side by side, John adjusting his stride to keep pace with Harold's limping without a word.

The driver raises the partition upon request, and they relax a little sagging against each other in the middle of the seat. It's as close to physical affection as they come in public, still enough of a novelty that it's enough for the journey home—or as close as the car can take them to it.

Finally home, and subjected to Bear's enthusiastic greetings, John goes off to check if they are still secure. Harold is tempted to object; order John to come with him so he can make sure John is as well as he acts. The soldiers return a little while later, Bear trailing after John, to take position in the doorway at the sight of the first aid kit. "Traitor." John mutters darkly once he realizes he's trapped, and gets an unimpressed bark in return. Harold can't help a chuckle, not bothering to hide his amusement when he spots John's quiet pleasure at the sound. "Up, John." He taps the desk, and is obeyed with a put upon sigh and mutinous glare.

"I am fine." John protests, taking his jacket off without having to be told. The suit is hopelessly wrinkled, but has stood up to the abuse it's been subjected to.  John spreads his legs, allowing Harold closer, leaning back with a smirk making it clear that while he will submit to an examination he won't be helping Harold with it. Most of the adrenaline has worn off, but there is still a banked fire behind John's eyes that flares when Harold undoes the first button of his shirt.

"No!" Harold orders, hoping John will obey him long enough that he'll be able to check John's ribs before they get distracted again. "Blijf." He adds after some moments of hesitation, his nerves disappearing at the sight of banked heat in John's eyes flare. "Woef." The soldier drawls showing his teeth, and Harold's hands twitch ripping the button he's been fumbling with clear off the shirt. "That's an expensive shirt, Harold." John points out mildly, "I'm well aware of that, Mr. Reese." He slides the fabric off caressing the strong shoulders that are bared. There is a large bruise forming on John's ribs, but palpating determines that the ribs themselves are intact: nothing to worry about but mid discomfort. "But I prefer you out of it."

"I noticed." John, throws his head back in a deliberate way: submission, trust, a wordless taunt, an invitation, John with his guard lowered still likes to tease, a lot—"John?" He questions, unsure how to proceed, remembering their coming together, all the fantasies John had made him spill.

"Would it help, if I told you I want to be good for you?" John husks, sliding off the table leaving his shirt behind. Their bodies press together aroused and eager, John trembling in anticipation and Harold—he wants—so much, too much. He wants to ask if John truly wants— With a slightly put upon sigh, John bends his head, nips at Harold's bottom lip then slides gracefully to his knees. Harold's hand is in John's hair before he knows is, scratching through the short strands as John arches in to his touch, every filthy fantasy he's ever had dancing through his mind.

His tie is strangling him, so Harold tugs it loose, mentally cursing when the knot doesn't want to cooperate. When the heavy silk finally untangles, he lets it fall on John's shoulder, watching the anticipation turn icy eyes hot. There are so many ways Harold could use the heavy material for their pleasure—John opens his mouth, offers another surrender, and Harold has no choice but to accept. He presses the heavy fabric between John's lips, shudders when white teeth bite down, and the kneeling man leans into the gag making it easier for Harold to tie a knot. "You make it so easy, John." He sighs, pulling the soldier forward until he lets himself fall forward against Harold's abdomen. John's soundless moan vibrates against Harold's body, and suddenly he knows what he wants. "On the table." He orders, and John rises easily: hands at his sides, graceful and hungry climbing on the table without much effort.

"Hands behind your back, please." Harold whispers, marveling at the sight before him: John sitting back on his knees, legs spread wide, unashamed in the slightest of his arousal straining against his trousers. "Closer to the edge." John obediently shuffles forward, muscles working under skin, teeth bared around the heavy silk. "I should punish you for your recklessness, but considering your masochistic tendencies you would enjoy yourself too much." He trails his hand down John's uninjured side as he speaks, raking his nails down the ribcage in reward when John bows his head guiltily. It won't change anything, but part of Harold hopes that if he keeps on telling John he's valuable, the man will actually believe it one day. Sitting down, he looks over the body displayed for his pleasure. "Are you going to be a good boy for me now?" He husks, playing with the buckle of John's belt until he gets a sharp nod in answer.

"Good." He opens John's belt and slides it out of its loops, folds it neatly and lays the leather to the side. Framing John's arousal with his hands, Harold feels him throb through the heavy fabric of his trousers. Harold rubs his thumbs up and down the trapped shaft until John stops fighting against the frustrated moans that escape him, trusting in the silk gag to keep the noise down.

Only after John gives in, does Harold release his arousal from its prison to slap wetly against John's abdomen. Leaning in as best he can, Harold nuzzles at the hot length before catching John's gaze. "I have some things I need to check on before we can retire. Can you stay hard for me?" He cups John's balls, rolls them gently in the palm of his hand waiting for the sharp nod of acceptance. Waiting will be a punishment John can appreciate, and Harold does need to check on some things. Reluctantly taking his hands off John, he retrieves his laptop he uses in the field setting it up next to the bound man. Logging in, he watches John from the corner of his eye: the rise and fall of his chest, the straight back, the openness of him. "Close your eyes." Harold orders, pulling up the documents he intends to read, not even bothering to check if John obeys.

Even with John next to him, the information in the documents is absorbing, Harold doesn't notice himself disappearing into the labyrinth of it until a sharp whine drags him from its cold, logical grasp. It seems his hands had a mind of their own, Harold isn't sure how long he's been fondling his lover while reading, but John looks strained. The penis Harold had been absentmindedly playing with is dusky, the head shiny, skin stretched tight with unfulfilled arousal. John's face is twisted by something that might be pleasure or pain, teeth bared, gnawing on the silk as he fights to keep from disturbing Harold's reading.

The sight is—magnificent.

Harold's banked arousal returns with a vengeance. "John! Look at me!" He demands, rising to his feet, cupping the kneeling man's jaw to draw him back from the place John has gone, to do as he was told. "You've done so well for me!" He praises, digging his fingers in straining muscle and kissing John's lips around the gag until the soldier finally opens his eyes. The pupils are blown, and John doesn't manage to focus on Harold's face, but he does lean in to Harold's touch. He can't help feeling pleased when the tight muscles under his hands slowly relax and John claws his way back to Harold. "You're such a good boy," Harold whispers, "and good boys get rewarded."

Taking the gag out of John's mouth takes some work, kisses and caresses, whispered words of encouragement until John's jaw finally relaxes and Harold can remove the soggy material. He coaches John off his knees, makes him stretch his legs then sit on the edge of the table. He unwraps John's body until every last barrier between him and John's skin is gone. Once John is free, Harold can wrap his arms around him, sharing body heat until he feels John return his embrace.

Only when John is back with him completely, does Harold push John on to his back, spreading his legs to make room for himself. Lube, to Harold's embarrassment, is easily found  in the nearest drawer left behind from a previous dalliance. Breaching John's body leaves them both shaking. "Harold! Please!" John whispers, if Harold wasn't listening for it, the plea would be lost among harsh breaths, and rustling of clothing. "Be good for me just a little bit longer." He whispers in return, wanting a moment to memorize the way John looks: eager and needy, broken and owned.

Holding John's hips, Harold fucks himself as far into John as he can go, takes his time over every inch, every silent gasp and smothered whimper as John fights to obey orders. He caresses up the abdomen that twitches under his hand, spreads his fingers across John's chest and teases tight nipples with his palms, Harold indulges himself, scraping his nails across John's throat and leaving welts down John's chest and ribs from how hard he digs his nails into John's skin.

Wrapping his hands around John's throat while rocking into him, seems natural. Squeezing lightly has John tightening around him and moaning, hands shifting restlessly at John's sides. "Take hold of my wrists." Harold orders, and instantly his wrists are encircled by John's hands, trapped and held at the same time as he tightens his grip around John's throat. "Just a little longer, Mr. Reese." He whispers, looking down at John's arousal trapped between their bellies, soaking Harold's shirt in the most appalling way.

The sight sends a jolt of fresh arousal through Harold's body, tightens his balls, and his grip around John's throat. He watches John's face go red, and his dick leak harder. John's hands tighten around his wrists almost to the point of pain, tightening even more when Harold tries to slacken his grip, until he deprives John of air again. John's heavy lidded eyes shine with pleasure, with trust and submission and—Harold spills himself in his lover mesmerized by all the things he can see in John's eyes, shaking and barely keeping his footing, only John's firm grip on his wrists keeps him more or less standing. "Come!" He barely remembers to slur, still trying to get his still shaking body under control pleased and horrified to feel John's release soaking his shirt.

John finally pushes his hands away, panting harshly while coming down from his air deprived high. Harold can see John biting back protests as he pulls out. He slumps against the table as best he can, feeling strangely off kilter.

John is standing before Harold feels confident enough of his thought process to try and attempt to put himself to right again. His arms wrap around Harold's shoulders, helping him to close his trousers while remaining oblivious to his own state of undress.

The stairs up to the apartment are an almost insurmountable obstacle, but with John's support Harold is still willing to try.


	3. Chapter 3

It's hot enough that his mouth resembles the surrounding desert. 

His ears are filled with the sounds of the shifting sand, and the buzzing of flies, the thudding of his own heart and Jax's moans dying down with his last breath. After a little while, the flies become all John can hear, but they can't distract him from nausea or the dull pain that's slowly creeping up his body. Just out of his reach, and yards away his partner dies covered in dust, blood and flies already gorging themselves on him before Jax exhales his last breath.  

John rips himself from the nightmare without moving an inch, his breath barely speeding up even with terror sweat soaking the sheets around him. His muscles are tight enough to hurt from the strain of not lashing out, not trying to reach for the dead. Thankfully Harold is curled up on the other side of the bed, still deep asleep. From the smell of him, Harold is having good dreams. 

Fighting his way out of soggy sheets, John slips off the bed, Bear looks up sleepily to settle with a discontented grunt when John gestured for him to stay. If John let him, Bear would follow him out and keep him company, but guarding Harold is more important and he needs to be alone anyway. 

As much as he loves the little apartment, John can't be there right this moment. 

The upper floors of the library haven't been used since it closed down, and Harold never bothered to reconnect the heat there. Shivering John ghosts through the stacks, fighting not to remember—anything. 

He'd spend 12 hours in that ditch watching Jax die and get mobbed by flies.  

Jax—he hasn't thought about Jax in years and hasn't not thought of Jax either. Jessica had made the memory better for a little while, had distracted him with the prospect of normality but in the end—If they hadn't been ambushed, if Jax had lived they could have retired by now somewhere quiet. They would have done their tours, served their country and gone on to have boring lives somewhere without explosions or ambushes.  

Then Jax got killed protecting John, and the K9 division had no use for a broken soldier who couldn't be partnered up again. They'd tried for months, but even after mostly recovering John couldn't be around any of the dogs without wanting to puke and they damn well knew it, knew far better than the humans who took care of them just how broken John was. 

Funny how the Delta's hadn't minded that one bit. 

Getting grabbed up had been a relief: he could stop trying. Pretending to not be broken was far easier when dealing only with humans who didn't have the sharp senses required to penetrate through his mask. He may not be the very best in his class, but he's good, good enough for the brass to keep him busy enough not to think about anything but the orders he gets. 

Jessica—reminds John about his dream of 'normal' after retirement. She also reminds him just how broken he still is. Nightmares about Jax, about the clouds of flies circling them both still happened even as he tried to convince himself that he was happy. If Jax had been there, John might actually have been happy for real. He tries to love her as she deserved regardless, but in the end—not that John deserved her in the first place—he'd still left. After the planes hit, staying with her hadn't been an option. 

Pack loyalty or whatever strange instinct they programmed had kicked in and John went back to his masters, who promptly handed him over to the Company. He did the best he could: followed orders and served his country but something was off. Instead of once a week or so, he was dreaming about Jax pretty much every night: no matter how exhausted or physically sated he was, a few hours after going to sleep he'd be waking up biting back screams—but he could still handle it. 

He handled it up until Jessica's call, all the way through almost getting killed by his partner and back onto US soil only to find out that the woman he could actually imagine spending the rest of his life with was dead, dead at the hands of the man who was supposed to protect her. Another person he cared about dying because he hadn't been better at protecting them. 

Harold, Harold has made the nightmares go away: allowing John to save people, to be better.  

They don't go completely, John isn't sure if they will ever go away completely. 

Still, it's after resolving the first number for Harold that John got his first decent sleep in years. He gets a nightmare free night with every innocent they rescue, a nice incentive to keep doing it along with the ridiculous paycheck and Harold's gratitude. Having clear objectives and unambiguous orders again is—comforting. It allows John to relax a little, let his mask slip just the tiniest bit because Harold—Harold either doesn't know, which is unlikely, or doesn't care about the extent of John's modifications outside of idle curiosity. As long as John does the job, Harold will keep taking care of him, and if there is a part of John that wants more than the absentminded care he receives—well, John has learned to live with what he can get a long time ago. 

Sometimes John amuses himself by wondering if this is how the average pet feels like; a little exasperated and a little in love. 

Having Harold take over his life has been both annoying and funny. He sort of hates the suits; hates the ties especially, but at the same time loves the appreciation in Harold's eyes when he wears them properly, and the faint scent of arousal that Harold isn't even aware he's giving off every time he looks at John. In a way it's being back in the army: John's day is exactly regulated by someone who probably knows better than him how to best occupy his time. He retaliated by forcing Harold to eat and exercise, badgering him into getting enough sleep in an actual bed between numbers and distracting him when the genius starts to smell too much of pain and regret. 

Now that they share a bed—well, distracting Harold has become easier: all John has to do is nuzzle at the nape of Harold's neck and he'll be marched upstairs for a fuck unless someone is about to get murdered that very minute. Now they have become more comfortable with each other, some of Harold's protective layers get stripped off along with his suit, left crumbled outside of the bedroom. 

If only distracting himself was as easy. 

Stretching out on cool floor John wonders if this is what death feels like: every part of him slowly going numb until there is nothing of him left anymore, nothing left that can hurt. 

"John?" He doesn't know how long he's been lying there, Harold's voice calling him to heel as it always does: startles him back into reality. John's mind obeys instantly, his body—is far colder than he thought and sluggish with it. Moving stiffly, he sits up, then gets to his knees.  

Once he's kneeling, staying that way looks like a damn good idea. Harold's stifled moan as he crawls towards him manages to cut through the dark cloud in John's head. His master's voice making everything better. He butts his head against one silk pajama-clad leg, enjoying the sensation of the fabric on his skin. "Are you alright?" Harold stammers looking down at him. 

It's tempting to say 'yes', but that would be lying. So John doesn't say anything at all, just keeps rubbing his face against Harold's leg until Harold's hand finds its way into his hair. "Voet." Harold orders, and happily John shuffles around settling at Harold's side. "Volg." He's ordered, Harold turning to shuffle back towards their sanctuary. 

John crawls along body rapidly warming up in anticipation. 

Harold doesn't make him talk, he sits down on the couch and pats the space beside him encouragingly until John hops on sagging against Harold's side. "Are you comfortable?" He asks combing his fingers through John's hair. He nods, twisting his head to nip at Harold's fingers until he's tapped on the nose. "Af." He whines and Harold rubs his thumb across John's lips. "You need your sleep, except I'm pretty sure you will not manage it again without assistance." His mouth is already open to veto any suggestion of pills, when Harold's thumb silences him. "So, we shall have to do something about it." The steel in Harold's voice is what finally settles him, allowing some of the tension to bleed out of John's body. 

Harold's hands rake through John's hair, scratching behind his ear, exploring cold skin with gentle hands. "Bear woke me, I think he worries. Do you know how long you were lying there?"  

"No." John can't bring himself to care either, but Harold won't like hearing that. 

"John—," Harold sounds exasperated, all John wants is to roll off the couch and curl himself around Harold's legs, talking takes too much effort when all he wants is for everything to stop. "Tell me what you need, John." He demands, tugging lightly at John's ear in a way that has John gasping with pleasure. 

"No." He growls because talking means thinking, and admitting that all he wants to be at the moment is a dumb animal who doesn't have to think. Harold makes him look up, he fights not to meet the man's eyes but gives in eventually meeting Harold's eyes. 

"Oh—," Harold mumbles and John wonders what the genius is seeing? "John, well that's quite a conundrum—," he doesn't sound upset, but then Harold is skilled in deception. "Would you prefer—not to talk?" Harold asks, fingers skimming John's lips. "Just nod." He adds before John manages to force himself to speak. 

Nodding he can do, mouthing at Harold's fingertips as well and nipping at the bones of Harold's wrist. "Are you up to fetching some blankets?" Even if he wasn't, John would still nod 'yes'. He might be up to the discomfort of the cold, but that doesn't mean that Harold has to be, his knees don't really appreciate his crawling around so John gets up gathering a heap of blankets from the bedroom along with a couple of pillows for Harold's back.  

He drops them all on the coffee table, then pulls the back cushions off the couch to give Harold more room. Together they create a sort of a nest: Harold supported where needed and John curled up on the outside of the couch half in Harold's lap under the heap of blankets. "Good boy." Harold murmurs letting John nuzzle at his throat, rubbing his back, and the back of his neck. "You're so good for me." They both relax sinking into the warmth of the blankets, the darkness that drove John out of the bed receding somewhat, almost like Harold is the antidote to John's demons. "I sleep much better when you are near." Harold murmurs, slurring a little, shifting his weight to get more comfortable. 

Warm and wanted, John's body reacts to Harold's proximity his dick swelling against the curve of Harold's belly. He wants to hump against Harold's side, mark him up so everyone will know Harold is his, and John is Harold's. He'd do it too, only he doesn't want to disturb the other man, doesn't want to wake Harold again. "John?" Harold mumbles into his hair, nails digging into the skin at the nape of John's neck. "Is there something you need?" He whispers in John's ear, his breath tickling the short hair behind John's ear. He'd answer—but that would mean speaking. John rocks his hips against Harold's side, "oh, of course, yes!"  

John can hear a smile in Harold's whisper, arches into the hand that works its way down to knead John's ass. "Let me feel you come," Harold asks, pulling John down to nip at his jaw. He shifts his weight so he's straddling Harold's leg, takes care to hold his weight off of Harold while slotting his dick into the crease between Harold's torso and leg, his hips twitching already. "Good, that's very good, John, be so very good for me." John wants closer, wants to burrow under Harold's skin... He groans and huffs, mouthing at Harold's collar bone.  

With the blankets on top of them, they are sweat slick and slippery before they know it, John is clawing at the pillows right above Harold's shoulders, his dick rolling and sliding across Harold's belly, his balls swinging against Harold's hip dirty, clumsy and good. John whines against the side of Harold's throat feeling Harold's half hard dick rubbing against his thigh as he humps, listening to Harold calling him a "good boy". 

Everything becomes heat, skin, hair, spit, Harold's voice in John's ear keeping him grounded as he sinks into sensation, leaving behind all thought. For a second, one blink of an eye all there is, is heat, darkness, and Harold, for a moment John's head is empty of everything but need and lust. 

He sobs into Harold's chest and makes a mess of both of them to the sounds of Harold's praise. With his release John's body checks out, he slumps across Harold's chest mindless and tired. John's hand is wrapped around Harold's dick, Harold's fingers twined with him, stroking the smaller man to completion in minutes, their come mingling between them. 

John is vaguely aware that he should be getting up, getting a washcloth to clean them up because Harold doesn't really like messes. When he tries, Harold's hand tightens on the back of his neck, "sleep, John." Harold orders, so John gives in, tightens his hold on the genius and trusts that Harold will keep the darkness at bay.


	4. Chapter 4

Harold, it turns out does take time off on occasion.

In between maintaining various aliases and running down numbers, there are quiet days, with the novelty of sleeping in, and lazy mornings in bed. John smiles lazily nuzzling at the soft fur of Harold's belly where his pajama shirt has ridden up and John can get at his skin, trying to decide if reaching for the remote control to turn on the news is worth the effort. Above his head, there is the rustling of Harold refolding the newspaper he's working through. Once it's folded to his satisfaction, Harold's hand returns to the back of John's neck rubbing the knots out of the tight muscles there and sending pleasant shivers down John's spine. 

It's been a while since John felt this lazy, or content. 

Of course, the morning could be improved by breakfast—but that would mean getting up. 

John really isn't surprised that Harold can't cook, even geniuses have to be bad at something, but it does have certain downsides. If they were at a hotel they could have called room service, but staying at the library apartment feels better. 

Here everything smells like them: Harold, John, and Bear. 

No one but them has set foot in the space for ages, not even a cleaning service, and it's a balm to John's psyche. He can't remember the last time he'd been able to give into his instincts this way, let go of control and not rationalize. Harold doesn't mind when he forgets to use his words, or like now turns on to his back and arches into Harold's touch. He shouldn't be doing it, but Harold's hand works its way down to his belly nimble fingers circling the navel teasingly. 

John really likes Harold's hands, the way they methodically find every sensitive spot on John's body and mercilessly take advantage of each and every one, the way they seem to fly over the keyboard doing the very same thing to highly secured systems. He can spend hours under Harold's hands just enjoying the touch, and something tells him Harold enjoys it as well. 

Harold's hand drifts lower grazing John's pubes teasingly, plucking at the rough curls until John is a squirming mess, whining softly against Harold's shoulder. 

"You are impossibly distracting," Harold sighs, leaving off the teasing to refold his paper, "and noisy."John would like to point out that Harold likes being distracted, as the tent in his pajama pants demonstrates, but stringing words together seems like too much effort. Ignoring the comment he rolls over instead, nuzzling the silk clad bulge. Harold's muffled gasp makes him smile and mouth at the heavy silk a little harder. 

John would like to point out that Harold likes being distracted, as the tent in his pajama pants demonstrates, but stringing words together seems like too much effort. Ignoring the comment he rolls over instead, nuzzling the silk clad bulge. Harold's muffled gasp makes him smile and mouth at the heavy silk a little harder. 

"Really, Mr. Reese!" He isn't sure if Harold sounds more scandalized, amused or aroused, doesn't much care as long as he isn't told to quit. John wraps his mouth around the head of Harold's dick massaging it through the silk, "—at least it keeps you quiet." Harold relents with ill grace, picking up the paper again.  

"Take your time," Harold adds, and John hums his approval around the flesh in his mouth. Taking it slow means John can lick and suck as much as he wants, that release isn't the primary goal and he can indulge in just touching and teasing. John can 'play' until the heavy material is soaked through, and he can feel tremors running through Harold's body, and the hand that's been petting him is yanking on his hair.  

John loves making Harold lose control, his own dick aching where it drags against the sheets every time he shifts. John likes the ache of ignoring his own arousal while taking care of Harold, loves the weight and girth of Harold on his tongue once he's nosed open the slit and swallows him down.  

Harold's hand on his cheek calls John back from the haze of need and satisfaction, their eyes meet and Harold's hand tightens in his hair forcing John down and holding him still. Oxygen is overrated, John thinks, relaxing his throat to make it easier for Harold to thrust as best he can, swallowing around the length occasionally in encouragement until without warning Harold spills. 

John pulls back just enough to get a decent breath but doesn't release Harold until another tug on his hair and a soft "John," spur him on. 

"You are so good for me." Harold sighs, offering John his fingers to suck and lick until John feels capable of stringing thoughts together and remembers his own arousal throbbing against his belly. "Come here," Harold coaches, guiding and prodding until John is plastered to Harold's side panting into his ear, fighting the urge to humping Harold's side. 

"You can, you know," Harold says. His scent a mixture of embarrassment and arousal that would usually give John pause, despite liking the idea of making a complete mess of Harold's pajamas and maybe getting him out of them. 

"Please, John," he asks, and with a groan, John gives in. Throwing a leg over Harold's hip he humps shamelessly against heavy silk, and soft, furry flesh once the fabric bunches up. 

 "Let me see you come," Harold groans in John's ear, scratching lightly at the small of John's back and squeezing his ass in further encouragement. 

"Let me feel your pleasure," John can smell Harold's arousal rising again, even if the prone man's flesh doesn't follow, it's still enough to push John over the edge coming messily across Harold's belly, fighting the urge to sink his teeth in Harold's shoulder. 

"Harold," John slurs, his hips twitching with the aftershocks, dragging his dick through the mess he's made on Harold's skin. 

"Good boy," the praise is accompanied by soft kisses, and more scratches at the nape of John's neck, until Harold's penchant for neatness takes over. He wiggles out of bed despite John's protests, disappearing into the bathroom while muttering mournfully about the difficulty of getting stains out of silk. 

John stays sprawled across the bed until he hears the shower start, enjoying the privilege of laziness for a little while long, then gets up to put the kettle on, hunt down breakfast and feed Bear.


	5. Chapter 5

Watching John clean his guns is both disquieting and fascinating.

Harold prefers not to have the weapons in sight, but for efficiency's sake, turns a blind eye to John hiding them in the stacks, well, most of the time.

Occasionally, he can't resist commenting, and on a few occasions watching.

Cleaning guns, seems to relax John like a meditation exercise of sorts.

John's breathing slows down, tension flows out of his shoulders, and his spine loses some of its rigidity while his hands dance over the vicious implements of destruction that allow him to do his job so well. The memory of the skill those hands exhibit, has Harold breathing deeply, fighting back heat that spreads through his body and settles heavily in his loins. As wrong as it is, he enjoys watching John work, especially when the crimes stopped as especially heinous or senseless. 

John looks up, one eyebrow raised as he sniffs the air, and Harold catches a hint of a grin before turning away in mild embarrassment.

"Harold?" John calls, his hands almost petting the gun he's working on, from what Harold can see reflected in the dark window across from them, "everything alright?"

"Quite," he answers the reflection, "don't mind me." He puts his hands on the keyboard, fingers blindly seeking the notches on the 'F' and 'J' keys, the screen fills with gibberish.

The pale skin of John's forearms is far too distracting, derailing every attempt Harold makes at cool, rational thought. The delicacy of the skin there contrasts starkly with what those arms can do. Harold wants to press his lips to the vulnerable looking skin, taste it, and feel John's muscles flex in response, possibly suck a bruise or two just below the hollow of the elbows.

"Discovered a new appreciation for guns?" John prods, meeting Harold's eyes in the window, his hands dancing over the pieces of the gun assembling them by feel.

By Harold's count, the whole arsenal should now be checked and taken care off, ready to be put away. Deciding that since he is already distracted, he might as well indulge, Harold, spins his chair to face John again.

"Hardly, just revisiting an existing one," his bold statement is rewarded by John looking away, his rarely seen shyness coming out. He runs his fingers along the edge of the table, maybe trying to distract himself from Harold's words by touch, only to jerk his fingers away with a hiss.

"John?" Harold asks, jumping up to catch John's hand for inspection.

"Nothing serious, just caught my finger on something," John answers but doesn't pull away, so Harold cups his hands around the injured hand looking over the damage with care.

A drop of blood wells from a small cut on John's thumb, Harold tugs at the limb until he can wrap his lips around the digit, soothing the cut with his tongue. John's eyes widen in surprise, a soft growl escapes him, throaty and hungry, but he doesn't pull back.

Harold can feel the muscles in John's arm tighten and release, thumb twitching in Harold's mouth rubbing across his tongue, spreading the taste of blood, metal and the oil used on the weapons. John throws his head back, baring his throat in submission, and Harold _knows_ that one word would have the soldier on his knees at his feet.

Harold lightly strokes the inside of John's arm, until he can feel the fine hairs on the sides and back of it stand up. Releasing the digit, he plants a soft open mouth kiss on the broad, capable palm of John's hand before moving on to the next finger.

John moans and sways, pushing into the touch, clutching at Harold's vest like it's the only thing keeping him upright. Harold ignores the sounds, concentrating on mapping the surface of every finger with his tongue, sucking at the pads at the base until he's almost sure he has their surfaces memorized. John tastes salty sweat underneath everything else with a faint trace of sugar from lunch. Harold particularly enjoys scraping his teeth along the edge of the palm, until John crowds him against the table and growls, "didn't take you for a tease!"

He bites a little harder in reproach and John hisses, twisting his hand to interlace their fingers.

He leans down, finding Harold's mouth, the kiss soft and light, lips brushing over and over, exchanging breath until they are both dizzy with something that isn't just lust, but something more profound.

"I simply wished to ascertain you were alright, considering your track record with brushing off injuries," Harold denies, cupping John's cheek to draw him in for another kiss.

"If you want to kiss something better—," John suggest instead of taking a breath, and Harold smothers a chuckle against a broad shoulder.

"That's appalling, even for you," he mutters, John just smiles and tugs on Harold's tie, wrinkling it horribly as he winds it around his hand like a leash.

"I'm hurt," the soldier pouts, looming without even trying. Harold flashes back to bullies in high school, but they never elicited anything but disgust. John, looming or otherwise, elicits emotions that are as far from disgust as they can be.

The white, fitted shirt, Harold insists on, strains with John's every breath contrasting starkly with the tan on John's skin, and Harold's mouth waters at the thought of tasting that contrast.

"I am confident you shall survive the slight," his tie is tugged and their bodies collide, John's arousal poking him in the hip. Letting go of John's hand, he trails his hands across John's body, along, mercifully, intact ribs and hard chest up to broad shoulders, trailing down powerful arms to catch John's hands in his, freeing his mangled tie in the process. He fits his mouth over John's wrist-bone, licking over the shadow of a vein just below John's wrist following it down until he can sink his teeth into the flesh just below John's elbow. 

John groans, rubbing against him, leaning down to nuzzle at his cheek, nipping at Harold's earlobe, "I don't know, Finch, there is a first time for everything—," he trails off, twisting his wrist out of Harold's grasp.

"Please, never joke about such things," Harold demands, bunching the fabric of John's shirt in his hands to pull him close. John looks down at him curiously, and Harold feels like an alien, like he crossed the line somehow, one he'd missed in his original assessment. He's perfectly aware that there is a substantial chance he will get John killed sooner or later, but that doesn't mean he wants to hear jokes about it.

"Sorry," John finally says, not really meaning it, rather like he's trying something to see if it works, eager to get back to touching instead of talking. Harold ignores the apology, he cups John's face instead, licking into the tall man's mouth and nipping at his lips until the interlude is almost forgotten.

When Harold finally lets the soldier go, John looks—a mess.

He is biting his lower lip, his eyes hazy with lust, trembling with need. Looking down, he sees the wet spot on the crotch of the finely tailored pants. John blushes, squeezing his eyes shut, whimpering when Harold cups him over the fabric, rubbing the damp spot until it has grown noticeably.

"Beautiful," escapes Harold, and with a broken moan, John kisses him, tasting of desperation.

"You need new glasses, Finch," The soldier growls, sounding broken but defiant, and Harold can't have that. 

"Get on the table," he orders, taking off his destroyed tie, the texture of the raw silk pleasant against his fingertips. John hoists himself up, cocking his head as he waits for further orders.

Harold doesn't bother, pulling John's shirt tails from his trousers, he yanks on them, ripping John's shirt open and exposing the lovely chest. He pushes the shirt off John's shoulders, trailing his lips across the newly exposed skin on each side, carefully arranging the shirt in the crooks of John's elbows, trapping his arms against his sides.

"You are beautiful to me, John," he says against John's throat, caressing the newly bared skin. 

Before John manages to voice another protest, Harold kisses him, distracting the man as he opens John's trousers. John moans into Harold's mouth, his dick twitching as Harold closes his hands around the hot, damp flesh freeing it from the confines of John's clothing. Freeing himself as well, Harold takes the both of them in hand, enjoying the press and slide of them against each other.

The silk makes both of them shudder as Harold wraps the broad end of the tie around them both, binding them together, pleasuring them both. John lets him, panting hotly in Harold's ear, whining every time Harold's hand rubs over the heads of their dicks. The soldier leans back to get a better look, bracing on his arms, his muscles straining against the white fabric keeping him hobbled, chest heaving and abdominal muscles tight fighting the urge to thrust into Harold's hands.

"Do it!" He orders pushing closer, tightening the cocoon of silk around them, "make us come!" It won't take much for Harold, with John breaking apart for him so beautifully.

For a second, John blinks at him helplessly, too dazed to process the order. A shudder runs through him when the words penetrate, he licks his lips and Harold's mouth goes dry. John lies back until he's bracing on his elbows, guns and cleaning supplies shoves aside with less care than they deserve, one long leg hooking across Harold's good hip drawing him closer, the other bracing on the chair he'd been using, making it creak dangerously as be braces against it arching his back.

John rocks his hips up, his muscles straining as his dick drags against Harold's. It's awkward and slow, not enough and too much at the same time. Harold hates that he can't feel John's legs locked around his waist, that he cannot take John's weight, cannot reach out and let his hands roam over John's skin, wrap a hand around John's throat and squeeze again, feel John strain to give them pleasure even as he grows dizzy and faint. 

John's heel digs into the small of his back, drawing Harold out of his head again, he's sweating, his hands curled into fists on the tabletop, arms trembling from the strain of holding himself up. Harold feels rubbed raw against the silk, sticky and oversensitive from the pressure, but stopping isn't an option. Need itches at the base of his spine, his undershirt soaked through with his sweat, his shirt probably a complete loss as well—Harold needs to see John come apart for him. 

He wets his fingers with their slick, mixing the taste and smell of them together to draw ones and zeroes on John's skin, a four letter word turning into a string of numbers long enough for Harold to work his way up to John's throat. John twists his head, and Harold's fingers end up in his mouth groaning at around the digits. John's eyes flare, and he's sitting up, forcing Harold closer, taking his mouth roughly—Harold is going to regret it, but with John wrapped around him, their fingers intertwined sliding the rough fabric of the destroyed tie over their overheated flesh it's hard to remember to take care.

He leans into John, hides his rising discomfort against John's throat stubbornly focusing on getting both of them off. John's hand trembles on his, tightens and releases, and John is coming, one hand vice-like on Harold's wrist, the other digging into his shoulder. The fresh, sharp pain of it sends Harold over, has him losing his footing, and only John's grip on him keeps him from collapsing into a pathetic heap.

John, when Harold finally looks up at him, curses, sliding off the table to carry Harold over to the couch somehow managing not to trip over his trousers. It isn't the best option, but Harold doubts either of them can manage the stairs shaky as they are. He knows John wants to lecture him about injuring himself, but he holds his tongue and gets the comforter that's migrated down to the library instead.

John looks like he's considering more possibly cleaning them up, but Harold grabs him by the arm, pulling him down instead, mutual stickiness be damned.  


End file.
